I like to run. That’s established. But I still need a kick in the pants to get going sometimes. And a workout schedule. And bribing. And yelling. A coach will call these things “love”. But love is not the word on my lips as I turn the corner and face a 50 foot climb in the first quarter mile of my Pac-Man Run. My friend Leigh came up with this term for this “fun” run Coach T has us do to keep us from getting bored. It involves going for a run in a neighborhood and changing direction at least every two blocks. So if you look to your left or right at the first cross street you hit and you don’t like the looks of that hill, you HAVE to turn on the next cross street no matter what is there. That is why, 1 minute into my run, instead of going up that shorter, steep cul de sac that was my first cross street, I am having to get up this even steeper street that curves and ends I don’t know where. And, of course, two cross streets after that, there is more up. By my third turn I have gained 150 feet in elevation. The moral of the story here is, don’t live in a valley.
It’s only supposed to be a 50 minute run, and here in the first 10 I’m already getting a little cross eyed with breathlessness. To make matters worse, I can’t hope to reach a state of running oblivion, because my other task is to look for something interesting to report back about. And you thought a fun run didn’t have rules.
For the first 25 minutes, I feel like I have seen absolutely nothing interesting. Except that I note that every street I go down, there is always at least one house that is still proudly displaying Christmas lights. Then I notice every dog walker I have passed is male. And every dog, save one, is a lap dog. And none of their walkers seem to know how to control their small dog leashes, and none of the small dogs are really happy to see me. This leaves me to wonder where all the Labrador Retrievers have gone. They always just want to run with you and slobber lovingly all over your shoes. They don’t want to take you out by the jugular like Monty Python’s Killer Rabbit.
This thought leads me to start looking closely at the houses and deciding which of them would be most likely to house the Killer Rabbit. I mean, is a Craftsman style suitable for the storage of the bones and Under Armor of unsuspecting runners? Would that be more ironic than the brick faced Federal? Cripes! Another hill!Before I know it I have 7 minutes left and am about 8 minutes away from home, and I’m feeling delirious, which is the gaudy sister emotion to happy. I have to mop up and go to a clinic on stretching and staying injury free (as if such a state actually exists) and I’m already going to be late. I abandon the Pac-Manning in favor of speed and end up getting back to my place with over a minute to spare. The third rule of Pac-Man Run is that you can’t cut a Pac-Man Run short. This means the other runners out in my neighborhood Pac-Manning can report back to their coaches how they saw some idiot timing herself jogging in circles around a parking lot.
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